


The Scientific Method

by DozingNeko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Declarations Of Love, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Sherlock, F/M, Face-Fucking, First Time, I've never posted fanfiction before, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Romance is not my strongsuit but I am trying, Sherlolly - Freeform, Spanking, Submissive Molly, Tom mentioned not present, Virgin Sherlock, Will be adding tags as I go, how do i even tag, this is a very daunting task
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 11:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DozingNeko/pseuds/DozingNeko
Summary: After her breakup with Tom, Molly is in a bad place. To get herself out of this rut, she decides to take a night for herself. A night of drinking later lands her in the metaphorical lion's den, and what happens next is anyone's guess, really.





	1. Sagacity

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!  
> I forewarn you that I've never posted anything like this before, and with plenty of urging from my (beta I guess?), I've finally conceded: the following is a culmination of a few days of boredom, fueled by a longing for more Sherlock. This said, I hope you can find some enjoyment for my keyboard fumbling.
> 
> Also! I am a westerner, so any missteps in my wording is apologized for.

It was desperate. There was nothing special about it. Molly had become obsessive, thinking about him constantly since that phone call. She had been crying, if she remembered correctly. There had been an ache in the depth of her chest. There was that unfamiliar pitch in his voice, not dissimilar to when he admitted to needing her help. He killed himself the next morning. 

John had come to her afterwards, looking absolutely knackered, like he hadn't slept in days, where he explained the day's events to her. Molly had cried again, collapsing into the former soldier’s chest, where he caught her in a fierce hug and didn't let her go until the sobs abated, long after she ran out of tears. 

It felt horrible, knowing that Sherlock had actually thought Molly would die if she wouldn't admit to him that she loved him. It would have been fiery and painful, he had assumed, and she would have gone up in an all-consuming inferno. 

Molly sat at home now, stroking her brown tabby between his ears, wishing she could cry but lacking the energy. She'd seen Sherlock once since that day, when he came to her house, brisk and intent. 

“ _ When was the last time you dusted? _ ”

It sounded like an obscure question, but she answered it anyways, humouring him, because it would just be easier that way. “ _ I don't know, a month _ .”

He had nodded, not clueing her further on what he was doing, taking one of her dining chairs and standing on the seat so he could see into the vents. He shoved his arm in up to his shoulder, face cold and precise. It reemerged, holding a small device, which he handed to her silently, picking up the chair and taking his long strides to the opposite side of the room. 

“ _ Sherlock? What is this? _ ”

“ _ Camera _ .” He had answered her crisply and without pause, looking at the top of the fridge, where paw prints disturbed the dust. He picked up that one as well, though it was on its side, knocked over by Molly's cat. 

He handed it to her as well, carrying the chair down the hall towards her room. Molly chased after him. “ _ Why are there cameras in my flat? _ ” She screamed, watching Sherlock desperately, hoping for some sign of sympathy. 

“ _ Eurus _ .” He had said. “ _ She had someone place them here. Luckily for us, she didn't have her lackeys place them very carefully _ .” He scanned over her armoire, finding another at the top. He handed it to her. 

“ _ Are they everywhere? _ ” She had asked, bordering on hysterical. 

“ _ Yes, likely so. I wouldn't concern myself too much with that, however. Eurus had no interest in watching you dress or anything of that sort. _ ” He looked around the room, touching his fingers to the bedside table and rolling the dust between his fingers, opening the drawer before Molly could protest. She couldn't register any change of emotion on his face as his eyes set upon her small collection of...  _ toys _ ... only cold machine as he searched through them, uncaring, before closing it.  _ There wasn't even a camera in there _ . 

“ _ That's not the point, Sherlock! _ ” She argued, feeling heat rise in her neck.  _ “It's a gross invasion of my privacy! _ ”

“ _ I concede it. I fail to see what you expect me to do about it, however. Eurus is a patient in a mental facility. There's hardly more I can do. _ ” Sherlock answered, facing her now and furrowing his brow in confusion.

Molly felt a sob in her chest, following him the rest of the way through her home without protest, watching camera after camera land in her palms until Sherlock had to carry a few as well, until they ended up with seventeen altogether. Sherlock deposited them into his coat pocket, taking Molly's as well. 

He flicked up his collar, preparing to return to the rain, his eyes distant as he began thinking. “ _ Molly _ .” He said at last. “ _ I'm sorry. For what happened. _ ” He looked at her for a moment, before opening the front door and sweeping through, not waiting for an answer. 

She had begun crying by that point. Lestrade had been kind enough to allow her a few days off to get her head together, forget about her trauma. Rumour had it that Sherlock's brother had made an appearance for that case as well. How many siblings did he _ have, _ exactly? 

Molly was sitting on the settee, knees pulled to her chest. The silence was smothering her. All she could hear in its place was Sherlock begging her to save her own life at the cost of her dignity. Oh, God, had it been worth it? Sherlock didn't seem to care much for her now. She just wanted to curl into a ball and give up. That was actually pretty much what she was doing already. 

_ Food. _ She registered vaguely. She needed food. She could treat herself to dinner, maybe drink some red, and enjoy herself. Wait for the pain to numb. Hell, maybe she'd get off with someone. 

It was decided, then. Molly rose from her place on the couch, stretching out her muscles, looking down at herself. Her pyjamas were ruffled, her hair nappy, it had been a few days since her last shower. First things first - clean herself up in her de-bugged shower, and prepare for her night out. 

It was much better in practice than it worked out. The second week of February, not her best idea. Though it was past Valentine's Day, there were still couples galore, sharing meals and drinking together, laughing themselves into comas, giving quick affectionate kisses. 

Molly was just about to cry into her plate, but as she ordered her fourth glass of merlot, the crippling sadness had begun to fade. She was out, with living people for a change, in a red dress that clung to her and made her feel  _ sexy _ . She ate quietly, distracted by the quiet mulling of her thoughts, the change of scenery doing wonders for her emotions, Sherlock's voice only a slight murmur beneath the crowd. Bliss. 

A hand gently touched her bare shoulder, and Molly looked up, the peaceful high evaporating. Sherlock stood, looking down at her, wearing his black suit with a cranberry red shirt. “Alright, Molly?” He asked, eyes clouded with concern. 

“Erm. Y-Yes.” She said quickly, blinking at him. 

He glanced from her, to the bench opposite, then back again. “Do you mind?” 

Molly fumbled for what he meant, finally straightening when sense was made. “Right! Sure, go ahead.” She said, gesturing across the table. 

Sherlock removed his blazer, beneath it a deep red shirt, and folded it neatly, placing it at his hip, before settling across from her, staring at her in an almost accusatory fashion. “You're intoxicated.”

She scoffed. “No shit, Sherlock.” Her voice was perhaps a little too loud, made obvious by the glance she was given by the waiter, before he turned, asking Sherlock if he'd like anything. 

“Water.” Sherlock had replied sharply, watching the young man scurry away in fright. He turned that same demeanor to Molly, who wasn't fazed by it in _ exactly _ the same way. “Why?” He demanded, either not noticing, or having the eloquence not to comment on the way her thighs pressed together. 

“Why?” She echoed, not biting, genuinely confused.

“Why are you drinking?” He growled, dismayed by her sipping of wine. His ire amused her. Aroused her. Both were a dangerous combination. “You're in the absolute _ wrong _ state of mind to be drinking.”

Molly ignored him, returning to her lukewarm ziti, feeling the waves to fury that wafted off of him with an internal Cheshire grin. She kept her façade neutral, stabbing the pasta into her fork and eating slowly, taking another sip of alcohol, the flavour smooth on her tongue, and burning as it traveled down. 

Sherlock's eyes were blue flames when she looked up at him again. Molly tried to imagine the last time she'd seen him so furious with little luck. Furious puffs of air came out of his nostrils as he tried to withhold a rant, berating her publicly. “We're leaving.” He declared as she drained the rest of her glass. 

Molly scowled at him. “I'm going nowhere, Sherlock Holmes.” She stated firmly, watching him stand and put his jacket back on. 

“Oh,  _ yes you are _ .” He promised darkly, narrowing his eyes at her, pupils flashing down just as her legs clenched. 

_ Damn.  _

“Up, Molly. Now.” He ordered her, taking the underside of her upper arm and leading her to her feet. She dragged her feet, stiffening when he leaned over her shoulder. “Don't make a _ scene, _ Doctor Hooper.” He warned lowly, leading her by pushing her in front of him. He stopped near the hostess, speaking in a kind tone of voice that was just for show. She wanted to listen, catalogue which kindnesses to ignore when he said them, but her mind was centred on his touch on her, not crushing, but holding. Stiff and unbreakable. 

He led her through the doors into the cold London air. He procured his coat -  _ where had he been keeping that? _ \- and laid it delicately over her shoulders. It was warm and comfortable, swallowing her almost to the point of dragging on the damp concrete. Sherlock leaned into the street, squinting up the vacant road and raising his right hand fluidly. A cab came out of what appeared to be nowhere, and Sherlock handled her like a convict, one hand on top of her head, before lowering her into the back seat. He waited for her to move a seat over before he slipped in behind her, speaking to the cabbie, and sitting back in his seat. Molly, without really meaning to, leaned on his shoulder.

She woke up in her bed, dressed in pyjamas, her head aching like mad. Her stomach heaved, dots behind her eyelids. The covers were heavy on her body and she groaned. “Good morning.”

Molly jolted, sitting straight up, her head protesting the sudden shift with an intense throb. “Oh, hell.” She muttered furiously, blinking and looking around her bedroom for Sherlock. He stood at the foot of her bed with his hands behind his back, dressed in what he was last night, sans jacket. “You’re here. Why are you here?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You asked me to stay.” He replied simply, stealing a glance at his watch. “We got back here around eight-thirty,” he spoke over her frustrated growl -  _ oh Christ, she’d hardly been out for an hour before getting wasted _ \- with ease, something he did perfectly well without needing an occasion, “at which point I had to pick your lock because you couldn’t find your keys. You threw up on my belstaff in the process,” Molly cringed, “but luckily, you waited until we were inside to strip.” His eyes twinkled at her at that point. “After doing so, you threw up once more, in the bathroom that time, before falling asleep halfway in the loo.” Molly brought up a hand to cover her face. Had four glasses of wine  _ really _ messed her up so badly? “So, I carried you in here, you woke up while I was dressing you, asked me to stay, and so I did.”

“Where did you sleep?” She asked, looking up at him and catching that teasing glimmer in his pale gaze. 

“I didn’t.” He replied, nodding to the nightstand. “I’d take that if I were you.” Molly turned and looked at the water and acetaminophen. She reached over for them, taking them carefully, the cold water doing wonders for her dry throat.

“Please tell me I didn’t do anything  _ too _ embarrassing.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “I wish I could.” He said as kindly as possible. “There was some bargaining, which progressed to begging.” Molly dropped her head to her knees and groaned. “It’s quite alright. I won’t hold it to you, Molly.” 

“It’s not  _ quite alright. _ ” She protested. “I fl- _ errghhhh _ .” Her hands fisted in the duvet. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m  _ so sorry _ .” She looked up at him, but he didn’t show any signs of being distressed. In fact, he looked quite comfortable, if not a little surprised by her adamance.

“Molly, it’s nothing at all.” He rumbled patiently.

Still annoyed with herself, red in the face, agitated, Molly smiled. “Thank you though, Sherlock. For helping me home.”

Sherlock nodded, walking around the bed to stand at her side, tilting his head and gazing down at her curiously. After a moment of content eye contact, he bent at the waist and pressed his lips to hers. It was almost chaste, but Molly couldn't help her guttural moan. This seemed to please Sherlock, who answered her utterance with one of his own. 

Finally realizing herself -  _ Molly, hungover; Sherlock, high-functioning sociopath _ \- she shoved her hands into his shoulders, forcing him backwards a step, where he corrected himself by standing and looking down at her. His eyes were warm, yet somehow remained clinical. “What the hell, Sherlock?” She gasped. 

Salaciously, he drew his tongue over his bottom lip. “Fascinating.” He mused, sitting on the bed beside her and scanning her face. “You have quite an interesting code of morals, Molly.”

The doctor in question narrowed her eyes. “And just what does  _ that _ mean?”

Sherlock tilted his head, looking down at her lips...  _ hungrily? _ She had never seen  _ that _ look in the detective's eyes before. “Because, after several years of pining over me, I finally reciprocate, and you disallow it.” He leaned closer, absorbing information from the way she leaned away. “ _ Oh, _ ” he hummed, “of _ course _ .”

“ _ Of course _ what?” She snapped. 

His smile grew. “You think this is a _ pride _ thing.” He said, his voice a timbre she didn't recognize. It was soft and caressed her like silk.  _ Spider. _ That's what Sherlock Holmes was, he was a damned  _ spider _ . “You think I'm _ using _ you as an _ experiment _ .”

“Aren't you?” Molly retorted, pulling a pillow onto her lap, hoping to get the heat of his gaze off of her.  _ No such luck. _

“Isn't that all a relationship is?” Sherlock inquired, sounding far away, locked in the tower of his Mind Palace. “Forming a hypothesis and performing experiments?”

“A very impersonal way of putting it,” she was cut off when Sherlock leaned ever closer, until their lips were practically touching, so they shared breath, “b-but yes, I guess that's accurate.”

The detective hummed, meeting her gaze. “I'm doing this of my own free will, Doctor Hooper.” He informed her, one arm going to the hip opposite of him so she was effectively trapped between his arms. “But if you decline here, I will honour our friendship and never speak a word of this to anyone. The choice is yours.” He leaned away, and took with him the heat that had flooded her body. She quivered in a full-body shiver, not unnoticed by the man on her bed, judging the smirk on his face. 

Molly met his eyes shyly. “... And you _ won't _ just cast me aside?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh of course. I just have a whole _ harem _ I'm ready to jump at the drop of a hat.”

“Sherlock.”

“No, Molly, I won't just cast you aside. I care far too much for you.” His eyes softened and he gave her a friendly smile. 

At that, what Molly _ prayed _ was the final emotional barrier but knew better otherwise in her rational brain, reached up and took his head between her hands and tugged him down for a ferocious kiss. He reciprocated easily, sliding his tongue along hers, pressing to any surface he could reach. 

One hand came up her shirt and cupped her bare breast, a little small in his palm, but he didn't seem preoccupied with her physical inadequacy, bringing his legs onto the bed and straddling her, his tongue massaging the front of her soft palate, stimulating a sigh through her nose. 

Sherlock's own chest rose and fell heavily with each huge breath he took, and Molly had half a mind to be impressed - with all the smoking she knew Sherlock did, to have that sort of lung capacity was a feat of strength. He groaned into her mouth, his hand from her chest coming down to her hip, his lips coming a tiny fraction of a centimetre from hers. “Out.” He told her. 

Molly blinked blankly at him, her head swimming. “What?”

Sherlock pulled on the duvet, growling, “Out,” again, this time with a little more force. Molly kicked at the covers, mindful of his position over her, whining in her throat when his tongue plunged back into her mouth, the vibrations emanating from his chest rattling through her. He pulled back with an obscene sucking sound, asking softly, “Are you wet, Molly?”

_ What? _ Her throat closed up and she opened her eyes, finding him gazing at her through half-closed eyes. He smiled. “Touch yourself if you're unsure.” 

“Have you ever done _ this _ before?” She asked, softly, as if her normal speaking voice would break whatever spell fell upon her once asexual friend. 

“What? Sex?” He narrowed his eyes. “I have, though never with a partner.” 

Molly leaned back. “You're a...”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly. “You can say it. It's not a  _ bad _ word.”

“You're a virgin?”

“I am.” He leaned into her and nuzzled her neck. She jolted when his teeth grazed her, a soft sound much like a big cat's contented purr making her shiver. “But John's laptop has yielded _ much _ information in this area.”

Molly snorted, slightly distracted from his ministrations. “Did not need to know that.”

Sherlock hummed. “Yes, neither did I. I was looking for the average subject of granulation tissue. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered what John had left open.”

“Don't think I can.”

“Fair enough.”

Apparently through with conversation, Sherlock took a firm hold, each hand on each of her thighs, and dragged her groin down to his, far too many layers of cotton between them. They each made sounds of disapproval at the sensation, Sherlock making quick work of her button-up pyjama shirt, the small circles of plastic no match for his violinist fingers, while Molly fumbled a little slower, distracted by the light bites he was giving her neck. When he finished with her, he slapped her hands away from his torso and began unbuttoning his dress shirt just as efficiently, putting more weight on her when she began to tug his hair in a frenzy. 

Several years of sexual frustration, she supposed. “Yes.” She said at last. “To answer your question.”

“I know.” Sherlock answered her, shrugging off his shirt so it flew to the floor in a cascade of blood crimson, gripping her floral top and giving it much the same treatment, drawing back now to yank down her pants without giving her time to sit up. He leaned back, gazing down at her, while she stared at the bulge at the front of his trousers. With a groan, Sherlock fell forward, burying his face between her legs. 

“Augh, _fuck,_ _Sherlock!_ ” She yelped, grabbing his hair more viciously and rewarded with him pressing down _harder_ and plunging impossibly _deeper_ , flicking his tongue in what she could only categorize as curiosity. “ _Right there, Sherlock, please,_ ” her voice came out as weak and desperate. Sherlock's elegant fingers wrapped around her hips, pulling her ever closer, his nose against her pubic bone. His tongue helixed upwards, stroking around her g-spot, practically roaring at the way her legs wrapped around his neck, heels digging into his mid back. 

“No!” She finally gasped. “No, Sherlock, no, no!” He withdrew without more than a moment of hesitation, face slick with a sheen of natural lubricant. He looked so _ majestic _ , risen above her like that, eyes glittering with the aftereffects of a lustful high. 

“What? Molly, are you alright?” He leaned over her, scanning her face for some social sign, an expression he could read. “Molly?” He said her name again, raw and worried, one hand cupping her cheek.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m fine.” She promised, breathing heavily. She met his pale eyes with her brown, stroking her hands through his tangled hair. “I want you...  _ inside me _ ... when I first...  _ come _ ... with you.” She said shyly.

Sherlock blinked a few times, absorbing her meaning, before nodding, sitting back slightly and yanking on his trousers, over his hips. Molly couldn’t look away, simultaneously aroused and surprised. He looked back down at her. “What?” He snapped, glaring suddenly.  _ Insecurity? _ How interesting.

“You’re...” She huffed a laugh. “You’re naked.” Molly smiled at his face, before looking back at his fully erect member, which throbbed under her attention. “You weren’t wearing pants.”

The detective scoffed, laying his body back over hers, settling between her legs and laying an affectionate bite to her shoulder. “Don’t tease me, Doctor Hooper.” He warned, cupping one of her breasts in a hand. “I happen to know what you were - or rather  _ weren’t _ \- wearing under that dress of yours.” He bit her again, and Molly arched beneath him, where he growled, replacing his hand with his mouth. Molly all but shrieked at the sensation of the sharp edge of his incisors. “So very reactive,” he observed around the sensitive flesh, “what fun.”

“Wasn’t an invitation for you to torture me, Sherlock.” Molly fumed half-heartedly.

He laughed, blowing warm air over the planes of her chest, rolling his tongue over her nipple, soothing the ache. “I think you’ll find that I don’t search for permission to torture.” He ran one hand down the length of her body and finally gave her arse a painful squeeze, eyes sparkling at the breaths whistling between her teeth. “But make no mistake,” he went on, caressing down her thigh, “I have no intent of forgoing penetration.”

Not  _ exactly _ dirty talk, but there was time for that later. “God _ damn _ it, Sherlock.” She croaked, digging her nails into his shoulders and yelping at the sensation his pained growl sent from her overstimulated nipple to her groin. “How much of John’s porn did you watch?”

“Entirely too much.” He replied simply, switching breasts, not without kneading the previous with his free hand. “But don’t credit the porn too much - I have extensive knowledge of male, female and hermaphroditic bodies, not to mention what a fantastic test subject you are.”

“Oh,  _ shut up _ .” She snapped, pinching her eyes shut. “ _ Such an arsehole _ .”

“ _ Arsehole _ , you say?” He tilted his head. “Well, I didn’t think that was a  _ first time _ thing, but sacrifices can be made.” His fingertips slid into her crack, gently touching the pucker there.

“ _ Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it. _ ” Molly said quickly, holding him stationary under her palms. “ _ Smartarse _ , I meant to say.” She blushed at Sherlock’s grin.

“Now, for being so _ good _ for putting up with me, I think you deserve a reward.” He commended, reaching towards her nightstand and opening the drawer. Molly blushed harder.  _ Damn it _ , he already knew where she kept her _ things _ . He pulled out the box of condoms she had, flipping the box in his hand and looking at the back, so that _ Trojan _ was staring her in the face. “Have you been expecting some well-endowed visitors, Molly?”

Molly smirked. “Yes, but you'll do.”

Pulling a square of foil from the box, he murmured, “Saucy,” and tore it open with his teeth. With a deft flick of his wrist and a few moments to situate, Sherlock was covered in latex. He took her hip in his right hand and looked down at her. “Alright, Molly?”

_ So _ . This was it. Sherlock Holmes in her bed, looking down at her with his usually expertly tousled hair all awry, eyes dark with focus and dopamine, his face shining with her own juices. It was absolutely enchanting. She was about to take Sherlock Holmes’ virginity. 

_ Oh, God. She was about to take Sherlock Holmes’ virginity _ . Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking down at her curiously. “Molly?”

“You're a virgin.” She said aloud, just needing to hear it once more, the truth that may never be the truth again. 

“Yes, I am-” he rolled his eyes, “I thought we were past that already.” 

“I just...” she laughed, “with the women after you, I never would have thought.” He blinked down at her, befuddled. “Oh,  _ please _ . The Woman?” Sherlock sighed, sitting back on his haunches and folding his arms, waiting impatiently for her tirade to be over. “And what about all those women who are obsessed with you from John's blog?” He raised an eyebrow, silently returning the question.  _ What about them? _ “You don't care?”

“Not particularly, no.” He grumbled. “You're really putting a damper on my first time, Doctor Hooper.” He scolded her. 

“I'm sorry, I'm just,”

“Insecure. Yes, I know.” It wasn't said to be cruel. He was probably sure of it, had seen it in everything she did. Hell, she knew it herself, why wouldn't he have seen it? “I have no affiliation with any of them in the slightest.  _ You _ , however, Molly, have sparked my interest.” He tilted his head. “I find you very interesting indeed.” He came to loom over her again, kissing her forcefully, his tongue shoving into her mouth. He tasted like salt and acerb. It was an acquired taste, she was sure, but the thoughts gradually revolved around the insistent press at her centre. 

Her hands slid down his body to grab his arse, desperately trying to urge him into her. Why the _ hell _ was she trying to bulldoze through this opportunity?  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

With a guiding hand, Sherlock slowly pressed into her, his breaths beginning to quicken. He put a bit of space between their faces so he could speak. “Well that's a _ new _ sensation.” He growled, his pace slow and unsure as he fed her inch after inch. 

“Good?” Molly breathed, squeezing the muscles beneath her hands, only to be rewarded with a thick, distracted growl. 

“ _ Oh, undoubtedly _ .” He moaned into her jugular notch, his hips rolling slowly, testing the sensation carefully. “It's _ tight _ but not _ crushing _ ,” he thrusted a bit harder, humming when Molly gave a low cry. 

What started out slow and practiced become rapid and desperate. Sherlock grunted with effort, his muscles flexing exquisitely under her hands. His voice was a hoarse rasp as he panted her name with his face just beside her ear. “ _ Molly. Molly. Molly. _ ”

Molly, driven mad by the sensory overload -  _ hot, damp, friction, pressure, voice, slapping of skin on skin, wet tongue dressing over her clavicle _ \- was sobbing out obscene words and phrases, “ _ Oh God, Sherlock! Fuck me! Fuck me harder, please! _ ” to which Sherlock did his damnedest to fulfill. 

His breath was loud and heavy, bass beneath her melody of high keens. For a first-timer, he was doing quite admirably, Molly admitted to herself, finding a whole new respect for her _ absolutely-not-asexual absolutely-not-friend _ . 

“I prepared you quite well, Molly.” He breathed, hot air ghosting over the side of her face. “Don't you agree?”

“ _ Fuck, Sherlock, yes, I do. _ ” A new gush of moisture flowed between them, and with a sound of effort, Sherlock pressed harder, Molly was almost certain his intent was to fracture her pelvis. Her hands went to the small of his back, her feet digging into his thighs. 

With a loud snarl of frustration, the pillow was tugged out from under her head and shoved under her hips. “ _ Oh Christ almighty! _ ” She sobbed.  _ Too much. More, please, I'm begging you _ . The new position allowed slightly deeper penetration, the top side of his cock brushing her g-spot. 

“Come now, Molly.” He urged her. “I won't last much longer, but I need to see it.” He picked up his head, dazed eyes gazing at her intently. “Do it Molly,  _ come _ .  _ I have you _ .” She released him and moved her hands to her breasts, pinching and squeezing frantically, bouncing carelessly against the mattress, Sherlock's shadow falling over her. “ _ Now, _ Molly!  _ Do it! _ ”

Her eyes rolled back, her eyesight dissipating so that she lived in simple emptiness, sensation as her guide as she felt the relentless pistoning ache of engorged muscle between her legs, sending waves of pleasure and pain through every wavelength, until it was overwhelming and she grasped onto his shoulders to keep herself grounded, nirvana doubling when she felt stream after stream of molten semen cover her inner walls, spilling over after a few subconscious thrusts. She vaguely heard Sherlock cry out, a high, non-Sherlockian sound in its pitch. 

Molly came to after a while, breathing being quite a chore with the extra weight that was sprawled across her body. He was flaccid but still inside her, minute phantom thrusts still rocking his body. 

“Alright, Sherlock?” She breathed, stroking her fingers through his hair. 

He responded with a sleepy moan. “Quite. Molly?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know that you become a zealot during intercourse?” He asked, nuzzling her shoulder. 

“Sod off, Sherlock.” She scoffed. “You scream like a girl when you orgasm.” She smiled when his rebuttal was a chuckle. “Sherlock?”

Sleepy moan. 

“You're crushing me.”

He squeezed her in his arms, inhaling a sighed yawn. “Just a little longer, before I go to Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard?” Molly questioned. 

Sleepy moan. “Lestrade messaged me while I was doing oral.” He replied. “It was an _ at your leisure _ judging by the fact that he only texted once.” Short pause. “That or he was in horrible danger and is desperate for my assistance. However, if it's the latter, he should've messaged John.”

Molly shoved at his shoulders, giggling uncontrollably when he rolled off of her and to the floor, groaning in pain. “Go to NSY!” She told him, smiling. 

“ _ I'm going! _ ” He snapped. “But I  _ will _ tell John that you told me to work rather than sleep and he will _ not _ be happy with that.” He threatened as he pulled on his trousers, not even bothering to clean himself up. 

“I'll tell John just what had you so  _ exhausted _ in the first place!” She retorted, watching the colour drain from his face. 

He tugged on his red shirt, buttoning it halfway before pulling on his blazer. “Be seeing you, Molly. Be sure to brush your teeth.” He stuck out his tongue at her. 

“ _ Go to Scotland Yard! _ ”

“ _ I'm leaving! _ ” He shouted as he thudded through the house in a straight line and leaving with a soft slam of the door, which triggered the onslaught of tears. 

She curled into a ball, wishing, _ dreaming, _ it had been the post-coitus that was making her cry.  _ Shame. Dread.  _ He didn't want to tell his best friend that they had sex. And were _ what? Friends? _ The crying hurt after a while, progressing to painful wails that rattled in her chest. She laid there for a while with the full intent of going to work tomorrow. 

And staying for a very, _ very _ long time. 


	2. Reconvene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Receiving a vague text concerning her bedmate, Molly rushes to Baker Street to make sure all is well.

After several seconds, long after the knock had vanished into silence, long enough for Molly to become concerned -  _ Was he “using" again? Maybe he was incapacitated? Attacked? What if he's bleeding out on the floor, and I'm just standing here outside like a tit? _ \- the door opened, and there stood Mrs. Hudson, keys in hand.

“Oh, hello dear!” The screeching of a violin almost drowned out her voice. “I didn't hear you knock.”

“I can see why.” Molly replied in a raised voice, listening to the exaggerated steps from the floor above. “I take it Sherlock's in?”

Mrs. Hudson made a face. “I don't know what's wrong with him.” She nearly cried out in frustration. “But I  _ do _ know that if I stay here much longer he'll drive me positively _ mad! _ ” She shoved out of the flat, brushing past Molly, who smiled sympathetically. “God help you, Molly!” She announced from a few metres down the street. 

Molly stepped inside and closed the door, the strings grinding louder against the bowstrings significantly louder. She slipped out of her coat, cringing at the calliopean outcries of the stradivarius. The floorboards creaked under her weight as she moved up the stairs. She folded her arms, squinting at his silhouette as he stomped around, eyes pinched shut, lips pulled back in a soundless snarl, body covered in only his silken dressing gown.

“Sherlock.” She uttered softly, he spun, facing the windows, his sporadic playing became Flight of the Bumblebees, a wild spasming of his left hand on the strings, right fluttering with the bow. “ _ Sherlock _ .” 

He fell still. She didn't know if it was a rest or if he was finished entirely. She then fished her phone out of her pocket and unlocked the screen, reviewing the text she had received. 

_ Come immediately.  _

_ -SH _

“Why'd you call me, Sherlock? I assume it's urgent.” Molly inquired gently. “You don't seem to be injured.”

Sherlock dropped his bow and instrument to his sides, growling in frustration. “ _ Very _ urgent.” He snapped, carefully pressing his violin into its case and placing the bow beside it. He turned in a rush, facing her, his hair mussed from activity, modesty just barely covered in a thin sheen of midnight blue, parting down to his sternum to reveal a triangular sliver of flesh. 

The realization dawned on Molly as her perusal of his body came to a sudden and abrupt close when her eyes zeroed in on the front of his pelvis, his erection jutting forward, unapologetic, unabashed. She made a strangled sound at the back of her throat, her face getting hot and undoubtedly an alarming shade of crimson. “ _ Christ, _ Sherlock, they're called  _ pants. _ ”

“ _ Pants _ .” He scoffed. “Why is everyone so keen on me wearing  _ pants _ all the time?  _ Pants _ .” He shook his head. “I say _ pants _ to pants.” He continued to glare. “Door. Closed.  _ Locked. _ ” He ordered her sharply, beginning to stroke himself, baring not more than a small patch of skin at a time. 

She had apparently been staring for awhile, because he snapped, “Now, Doctor Hooper, not _ at your leisure _ .” The last part was a sneer. She blinked twice, before turning and fumbling to obey. The door argued a bit, the edge of the aperture grinding against the frame before clicking shut, the lock falling into place with a gentle  _ snick _ . 

All at once, his body was pressed fully against her back, shoving her into the coldness of the wood and the scorching heat of  _ his wood _ , the latter of which began to grind between her legs. Not exactly...  _ there, _ but very,  _ very _ close. “Do you know how long it's been, Molly?” He asked her softly, his voice little more than a breathless, moaning growl. He reached up to the base of her skull, tugging her hair free of its elastic bind. 

“How... long?” She whispered, her face pinched in concentration, slightly distracted by the feel of his fingers smoothing through her brown tendrils. 

“How long it's been since I've been buried inside of you?” Molly shook her head, sweat beginning to bead on her face, half cold and half hot as the detective’s breath began to roll over her neck. “Come now, Doctor Hooper.” She could hear the amusement in his voice. “Surely you have an estimate?”

Molly croaked, confused and desperate. “Three days?” She wondered aloud. 

He pressed himself against her a little harder, still avoiding her centre. “Very close, but no dice.” He dropped his head to teethe her neck, purring at the sound of her pleased mew. “Would you like another guess?”

“ _ Sherlock. _ ” She grumbled, patience waning. 

A wicked grin pressed to her shoulder as his palms reached forward to give her bum a firm squeeze. “102 hours, 56 minutes, and 34 seconds.” Sherlock murmured, tilting upwards to bite onto her earlobe. His subsequent hum vibrated through his chest into her shoulder blades. “How many days is that, Molly?”

“I don't-”

His hips shot forward suddenly, causing her to hit her head to the door. Molly yelped, raising her head to caress the wound, whimpering when he got there first. The long fingers of one hand wrapped around both of her wrists in a surprisingly strong vice. “Come now, Molly. You can try a little _ harder. _ ” The double entendre rolled off his tongue with ease, punctuating his sentence with a slow roll of his hips which was chased by a deep moan. “Some quick math wouldn't be entirely remiss, would it?”

“A hundred two divided by twenty four is hardly  _ quick math _ .” Molly retorted, jerking her arse backwards in time with his thrusts. 

He growled into her ear in a damp breath. “You're not thinking hard enough.” He replied. “Try. It's quite simple, actually.”

“ _ Quite simple _ , from you, doesn't sound simple.” She hissed. 

Sherlock made a pleased sound. “I do love a good bite.” The tip of his nose traveled around the shell of her ear, stroking gently, before his teeth snapped down on her lobe. A groan fell up his throat at her shriek of pain. “D’you?” He asked through clenched teeth. 

Molly began to struggle, frantic. Tears and sweat dribbled down her face, arousal and nirvana making her groin clench and throb. He rolled the erogenous flesh between his incisors, free hand coming up her front to squeeze her breast. He began to rub against her in earnest, every shift making him tug her ear painfully. “Yes.” She finally squeaked. 

He sucked the lobe into his mouth, before pulling back with a deafening _ pop _ . “Mm, good. Maybe I'll give you another after you answer my question.”

“ _ Fuck you, Sherlock _ .” She responded intensely. 

Molly felt more than she heard him chuckle. “In good time, Doctor.” He grinned. “I've given you more than ample time to fabricate an answer, and I expect one.”

“Ergh,” the sound of effort escaped her unchecked. She began to thrash and growl like a cornered animal, her wrists chafing against his skin and _ fuck, why was he so strong?! _

“Molly, I'm beginning to think this is more about being stubborn than it is about not knowing the answer. Shall I assist you?” His body pressed her firmer against the door, hips still undulating, much slower and shallow. 

Molly nodded desperately. Her body was hot, damp with sweat _ among other things _ , and wound tighter than the strings on Sherlock's bow. Her wrists ached, her breast twinging painfully from its rough treatment, his hand still massaging it. 

“You know, it takes a lot to admit that you're out of your depth. I applaud you for that much.” He twisted the globe of flesh beneath his hand viciously. Molly screamed out in agony, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. 

“Oh, god... oh, f-fuck.” She sobbed, tugging at her wrists. It felt like he tore her tit _ off _ .

“Now, Molly,” he chided her softly, “I would never do such a thing to such beautiful breasts. Now, then, maths.” He licked her shoulder, where collarbone meets jugular, giving her an affectionate nip when she rotated her head to give him easier access. “Round them off.” He began to thrust slower and deeper, pressing lightly to her centre. He licked her carotid under her jaw when she whimpered. “One hundred divided by twenty five is...?” He drew his hips away and stayed, breathing gustily over her damp neck. 

Numbers flew through Molly's head and she finally whined, “Four.”

“ _ Very _ good.” He praised her in a mocking tone, continuing to rut against her jeans. “Altogether, it was four point two-seven-three-four-seven-five days.” 

“Thank Christ.” She gasped, sagging against him, caught between his chest and the door, her cheek pressed awkwardly to the moist wood, warmed with her perspiration. 

“I do have to admit, though,” Sherlock began in a rasp, “I'm quite disappointed.”

Molly's eyes snapped open as far as they could, catching only a glimpse of his face, his pale eyes now eclipsed to black with a hardly visible ring of aquamarine. “Why?” She garbled. Her hands were close enough to reach his groin, now, she noticed. Almost as soon as she did, he adjusted his grip on her hands and twisted so her thumb knuckles were stabbing into her spine uncomfortably. 

“ _ Why, _ Molly?” He shook his head, leaning so she could take in his whole expression, flushed red with excitement, eyes heavy-lidded with what was probably supposed to be boredom, but resembled more the effects of frottage. “It was quite a simple problem. I bet even _ Lestrade _ could give me a fairly accurate estimate.” He sighed, averting his eyes and turning his head slightly. “Truly, I had higher hopes.”

“That's not fair!” She protested, struggling against his hold once more, knees bent awkwardly from where he was holding her against the door where she slouched. 

“I find it's perfectly fair, Doctor Hooper.” He replied, canting his head to the side. “If you could give me an answer close enough, I would fuck you right here, against the front door,” he paid no heed to her desperate whimper, “but, alas, you did not.”

She couldn't remember hearing Sherlock curse _ ever _ . Damnit.  _ Damnit _ . A shudder coursed through her, followed by another rush of lubricant between her legs. She felt her face practically catch on fire and she pinched her eyes shut tightly so she couldn't see the result of the tug at the corners of his lips. 

“Oh, I see,” he helped her to stand stable on her legs, “you liked that, did you?”

“Shut up.” She mumbled, bringing her shoulders up to hide her face. 

He wrenched her arms down. “Molly, Molly, if you do that, I won't be able to see that positively _ charming _ flush of yours.” She took a relieved breath when he pulled her off the door, spinning her around in his hold and looking her over. He released her hands and gripped her shoulder firmly to keep her in place, stroking his fingers over her temple. She hissed and yanked away, glaring at him.

“Stay still.” He snapped, his eyes flashing without meeting hers, studying her face reverently, before finally he drew away, uncaring of the part of his dressing gown, revealing his smooth skin. And she looked no further. She made a point not to trail her peripherals beyond his navel. He smiled, backing up slowly and slouching into his chair, holding his head up with one hand, blinking lazily at her. She scoffed and turned away when his legs fell open. “Molly.” He beckoned. “Do come here.”

She bowed her head, eyes closed. “Y-Yes, Sherlock?”

“Across my thighs, if you would.” He replied rather patiently. She glanced up at his placid expression, his eyes looking grey in the light. His dark hair, a mess at this point, twirled over his head as it turned slightly. “ _ Now _ , Molly.”

She flopped belly-down on his lap, groping for something to hold onto. This would be so much  _ easier _ if he was wearing trousers. He squeezed her buttocks gently, kneading them much like a cat. “Are you comfortable, Molly?” He inquired politely.

Her breasts were hanging over his hip, one of them aching like mad, her legs hung uselessly to the floor, her arse was there, vulnerable, subject to Sherlock’s will - which was pressing insistently against her belly. “I, erm, I guess.”

“You...  _ guess... _ ” he echoed, teasing, undoubtedly. “Molly, once I begin, I’m not going to stop to let you adjust.” He warned. “The only way to get me to stop will be a safeword.”

“Safeword.”

“Oh, good, she’s learning.” He leered. “Alright then.” He patted her butt twice.

“I don’t know.” She received a light swat and she jumped in surprise. “I um. Sherlock, you ch-” he slapped her again, a bit harder this time. She huffed in frustration, knowing he was undoubtedly smiling down at her wickedly. “Denmark.”

“Denmark. Any specific reason?” He asked.

“I dunno.” She shrugged. “The first thing that came to mind.”

“Fair enough.” He acquiesced. A slight straightening of his shoulders was the only warning she got before he started giving her rapid claps, his hand cupped and making an impressive sound when it came into contact with her flesh. “Alright?”

Molly nodded. “Yes.”

His hand snapped down harder. “ _ Yes... _ ”

“Sir.” She corrected herself. “Yes sir.” She reveled in his purr of delight.

“Very good.” He praised her, shifting his posture again and increasing the pressure of his strikes, so much so that she rocked against his lap. A new wave of moisture soaked into the fabric between her legs. “You know,” he mused with a wistful tone, only slightly breathless, “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Molly couldn’t help her mew, the ache in the seat of her pants, combined with the suddenness of another sharp strike and the rumble of his voice. She was starting to wriggle helplessly, her arm curling around to grab at her aching sex. His posture and relentlessness was admirable. He sat just perfectly so she couldn’t reach anything erogenous. To reach her breasts, she’d have to bend at too acute an angle, and his haunch covered her pelvis, keeping her just out of reach.

Sherlock continued on his tangent, sweeping upwards now, sending vibrations across her flesh which led straight to her aching core. She cried out, grasping his calf with her fingernails. “I’ve been wanting to see you like this, wondering what you’d look like, helpless, bent over my knee.” He paused. “Though, admittedly, you weren’t this demure in my imagination. You were naked, your entire body red, legs spread apart and showing off your glorious pink cunt.” He growled, thrusting forward slightly, causing Molly to yelp, grimacing against a moan and swallowing it down. 

As if going into her mind and diving straight into the section of things she wasn’t sure she could handle right now, fingers began to pull on her waistband. She made a weak sound of protest, not at all surprised when he ignored her and focused on the task at hand. The room was chilly against her bare bum, which she assumed was flaring red.

“Mm, not quite the shade I had anticipated.” The detective muttered thoughtfully. “A good, deep vermillion would suit you well, I think.” He gave a sharp nod, the only warning before a series of hard and rapid slaps ensued. “Oh, this is turning out to be quite fun.” He chuckled softly. “You know what else?” He asked rhetorically. “I see you. I see you when I close my eyes. Very effective masturbation material, I assure you, but I’ve been seeing things. Things which add questions. Such as, wondering what you’d look like taking my entire cock in your mouth.”

Molly whimpered, her head hung and pressing into his quad muscle. “What do you think, Molly?” He pried. “Would you let me fuck your mouth?” 

“Yes, sir.” She squeaked. The pain on her arse was next to unbearable, copious tears falling over her face, sweat streaking her forehead and cheeks. 

The slaps stopped, and he returned to kneading her, the sore tissue practically screaming against the chafing of his skin on hers. “I think that'll do it for now.” He intoned kindly. “If you'd let go of my leg...”

Molly blinked her eyes open. Her fingernails had dug angry crescents into his calf. She withdrew her hands, blushing again and curling up slightly. His position adjusted and his hot breath was on her ear again, this time her right. “You did quite well, Molly.” He purred. “I'm pleased.” As a “reward,” he clenched his teeth on the shell of her ear, moaning at the sound of her scream.  _ For Christ's sake _ , she would be practically ice skating to the bedroom at this rate. Before the thought was fully finished, he was circling her vagina with his pointer finger. A hiss shot out of her. 

“ _ Fuck. _ ” She whined, her hips twitching of their own volition, trying to urge him into her. 

“How very curious.” He growled around the clench of his jaw. Molly decided to breathe through the pain. “You've shown only distaste for today's coupling, and yet,” he pressed his pointer finger into her, “you're sopping.” 

A tremor rattled through her and Sherlock hummed into her ear canal, raising gooseflesh as he gave her shallow, explorative presses of his fingers. “But enough about me,” he finally released her ear, blowing painfully cold air onto the wound. “Surely you have fantasies of your own. I'm curious as to what you've imagined a man doing to you.” 

When she shook her head, Sherlock's unoccupied hand came down for a surprisingly effective spank. “Oh, Molly, you can't lie to me.” He chastised her. “Try again.”

“I'm... I'm tied up on the bed-”  _ your bed _ , “and he-”  _ you _ “has his way with me.” She groaned, embarrassed by her incredibly vanilla fantasy. 

“And what _ exactly _ do you see me doing to you in these fantasies, Molly?” He asked, seeing straight through her ruse. Because of _ course _ he did. His fingers curled up in a beckoning gesture and he stroked something sensitive, something that made her back arch and her toes curl. “How often do you come when you wake up?”

She groaned, shifting backwards to reach for more depth, growling in frustration when he moved at the same rate, disallowing her attempt. “You do whatever you want.” She choked out. “Sometimes you...” She ground her teeth together. 

“Do I fuck you, Molly?” He asked, his voice thick and lustful, pressing a little deeper - incentive. 

“Yes.” She shook her head, “Yes sir.”

He hummed. “What else?”

“Sometimes you get your... riding-” her voice broke off in a long moan when he entered another finger. 

“Keep talking, Molly.” He ordered, fisting her hair and giving it a painful tug. 

“You get your riding crop.” She wheezed, bent in a huge “ _ S _ " shape, legs down, head up. Her eyes were watering and she could barely see into the fireplace. “And you hit me until I can't breathe... can hardly see.” She croaked when he thrust his still agitated erection into her side, urging her to continue. “And you  _ fuck _ me, until my legs hurt.” He yanked her hair harder, moaning loudly. “And then you untie me, and you,” she whimpered breathlessly, “you don't  _ stop _ .” 

His fingers withdrew, and she could feel his chest inflate with a contented breath when she sobbed desperately. “No, Sherlock,  _ please _ ,” she groaned. 

The detective hummed affectionately. “Calm,  _ calm _ , Molly.” He purred, stroking her behind, massaging the ache away. “Tell me when you feel you can stand.”

She squirmed frantically, trying to gain purchase on the old carpet. Sherlock chuckled, releasing her, watching with mirth as she struggled like a newborn deer to find her feet, pants at her ankles, still clothed above the waist. Sherlock tilted his head at her, smiling almost fondly. He stood, much more gracefully than she had, and stepped in front of her, nonchalantly pushing the shoulders of her coat back so it pooled on the floor. Molly stiffened, looking up at him. He was distracted by _her_ , gazing over her like she was a mutant fungus. Or... something _less_ _disgusting_ that he might find interesting. 

He took the hem of her shirt in his hands, now meeting her brown eyes with his grey. “Alright?”

Molly swallowed, giving a dumb nod of affirmation. Her light green shirt was whisked away in a single smooth movement, the flex of his muscle as he did it absolutely enrapturing. She was left standing helplessly, legs and belly bare, her face horribly hot. He knelt and worked the cuffs of her jeans over her heels carefully, one at a time, working slowly. 

“Stop squirming.” He growled, grasping her hip. Her thighs had been rubbing together rhythmically. A quiet sound of displeasure came up her throat, and she watched him cautiously as he got fluidly to his feet. He wrapped his arms around her, his erection pressed to her abdomen, and took the clasp of her brassiere in between his fingers. His mouth was at her ear again. “What's your safeword?”

Molly blinked. “Denmark.”

He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, growling, “Very good,” and proceeding to free her breasts. He pulled away, lips leaving her flesh with a damp _ pop _ , and he scanned her naked body, bringing his hands up to cup her breasts. “ _ Very _ good.” He said again, weighing her in his palms. He smiled at her, seeing the pink tinge of her cheeks. Molly was insecure about her breasts. They were small, compared to those of other women. She thought of Irene Adler, and as she did, he pulled her closer with a painful pinch of her nipples. “ _ Good _ is perhaps an understatement.” He amended. “ _ Addictive. _ ” He gave her a swift kiss, a firm press of lips, before he drew back to give her a delighted smile.

Molly tried to look away, flustered under his gaze, reprimanded with a sharp twist of each nipple. She arched her body into the pain in search of relief, which she knew would only come when she met his clear gaze. After a moment of steeling herself, she did. “Molly, do not be ashamed.” He glowered, eyes practically glowing with conviction. “You are more than adequate.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“That was meant to be a compliment.” He clarified between clenched teeth.

“Didn’t sound like one.” She made a slight yelping sound that was really more of a moan as he pulled her closer by her breasts, no doubt leaving bruises where he so carelessly held her between his five fingers. His mouth pressed to hers and his tongue thrust against hers, swirling around hers, pressing the insides of her cheeks. 

He drew back slightly. “Shut up, Molly.” Sherlock growled, glaring into her startled eyes. “I thought I’d proven by my past that I’m less than adept at praise.” He squeezed her breasts, humming lowly. “Is it odd...” he began softly, almost shyly, “that all I can think of, looking at you right now,” he smiled, his face going peachy, “is how much I would enjoy tying you to my bed and painting you with my semen?”

Well  _ that _ certainly didn’t fit the bill of what she  _ ever _ thought would come out of his mouth. She made a pathetic sound, pressing her lips against him in a single desperate move. “Please, Sherlock.  _ Please. _ ” His response was a hum before he began to slowly lead her to the door of his bedroom. 

“What would you like me to do, Molly?” He asked, blinking heavily at her. “Rather, what  _ should _ I do with you?” Sherlock seemed to ponder his own question, his head tilting to the side curiously. “I think I have a few ideas, actually.” He shoved the both of them through the door, and Molly got her first glimpse of the detective’s room. A small bed, small room, dresser, hook on the door, small closet, overall, basic. There  _ was _ a poster of the periodic table on the wall, however.  _ Because of course there was. _ He released her all at once, nodding to the bed. “Lie down, Molly.”

Molly stared at him blankly for a moment, before doing as asked, scooting to the centre and laying with on her back with her limbs spread out, blushing madly.

“Under the covers.” He added, watching her with rapt attention. She scuttled upwards, kicking at the top of the white duvet, wriggling under, covered up to her neck. “Good girl.” A rush of saliva filled her mouth when she watched him shed his last and only layer. The gown fluttered to the floor with a loud _ whoosh _ , as Sherlock lifted the bottom corner of the comforter, and crawled under, settling between her thighs. His nose stroked lazily over her clitoris, slow, languid,  _ teasing _ presses. Molly slipped her hands downward, taking two fistfuls of his dark hair, yelping at the moan he emitted which blew hot air against her sensitive flesh. His tongue darted outwards, touching the inner slickness of her labia. With a desperate whimper, Molly tried to force his head towards her centre. 

“ _ Please. Please. Please. _ ” She chanted mindlessly. Apparently taking pity, something she wouldn't have imagined him doing _ ever _ , he speared her with his tongue, releasing a pleased growl when she tugged his hair again. His tongue rolled over her walls curiously, exploring and finding specifically sensitive areas. Molly clamped her legs around his shoulders, inner thighs pressing to the sides of his head. Sherlock, in turn, manhandled her closer to him, pressing for more depth, a low sound rumbling from his chest, into her loins, all the way through her body, raising the hairs on the back of her neck and on her arms. 

Molly released his hair, instead favouring her breasts, squeezing them and whimpering at the painful twinge of the small contusions there. Her nipples ached from the phantom tugs, practically screaming into the sensual massage she gave them. She rolled her head back, unable to withhold her bellow.  _ Fuck, just a little more and she'd come all over his face- _

“ _ Ahem. _ ”

The entire world stopped - the probing of Sherlock's tongue, the gentle rolling of her nipples, only heavy breathing and the gentle tap of metal against hardwood. Molly blinked her eyes open, tilting her head forward, feeling all colour leave her face. She was in hell.  _ Surely _ this was hell. 

Molly Hooper lying on Sherlock Holmes’ bed, on her back, the consulting detective himself licking her towards orgasm while she groped herself, all watched over by his elder brother, none other than Mycroft Holmes. 

The first of the three panicked, yanking the duvet upwards to cover her naked breasts, staring at Mycroft, her eyes huge. He smiled in an utterly reptilian way. 

“Hello, Doctor Hooper. If I could just steal a moment of my brother dear’s time?” He asked, voice revoltingly polite. 

“ _ Get out! _ ” Sherlock roared, voice terrifying Molly out of her deer-in-the-headlights daze. 

“Oh, but Sherlock-”

“ _ Out! Now! _ ”

Mycroft dipped his head, tapping his hand on the table beside the door. “Good day, Doctor.” He said to Molly, turning and leaving without another word. 

Sherlock remained stationary until the front door clicked shut, where he shot up her body with surprising grace, his eyes clear. “Did he touch anything?” He demanded, all traces of sensuality and lust completely gone from his gaze. 

Molly blinked, trying to ward off her disappointment. “The table,” he rolled off before the last word was finished, throwing the books that were neatly placed to the floor, rifling for something. He gave up, turning and striding - utterly naked, Molly noted as she watched his backside - into the hallway. There was the sound of clamour, Sherlock searching for something his brother left behind. Molly sat up, scrubbing her face tiredly. 

“ _ Oh dear! _ ”

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” The door slammed shut loudly. 

Molly snorted in amusement, rising from the bed and picking up his dressing gown, before moving to the main room. The dubious order of said room was now destroyed. Everything askew, John's chair on its back, Sherlock's chair rotated slightly, her clothes hung over the window to the kitchen. She picked them up, pulling them on without shyness. Sherlock was too busy to tease her, anyhow. She finished quickly and methodically, pulling her hair back into its ponytail. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” She said as she reached for the doorknob. 

“Be seeing you, Molly. I do intend to make good on my text.” He replied, not stopping his search, but not sounding nearly as preoccupied as she thought he'd be. 

Flaring red for the millionth time that night, she opened the door and hurried through, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's surprised gasp and running out of Baker Street. 


	3. Remonstrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my garbage. ;v;
> 
> Suggestions/Requests are most assuredly welcome. Anything I can do to make this story more enjoyable, I would be delighted to give!
> 
> I have prewritten at least (give or take) seven chapters of this fic already, so anything past there, *aggressive thumbs up.*

Molly yawned as she closed the front door and walked into her flat the next day. She looked up, sensing something...  _ off, _ and knowing she had a fairly good idea of exactly _ what _ . “Sherlock?” She asked, just as she flicked on the light. 

The detective was sitting in her favourite armchair, trying to avoid making contact with the brown tabby that sat on the arm, purring and trying to get himself pet. “Hello, Molly.” He greeted politely, standing up with a displeased scowl when the feline jumped down and began to twine around the tall man's legs. 

“You're in my flat.” Molly said futilely. 

“Very good. I do believe I'm rubbing off on you lot.” He teased, giving her a weird smile. It was filled with teeth, made his eyes crinkle. 

Molly folded her arms, furrowing her brows at him. “What to do want?”

The façade dropped without a moment of pause. “You.” He replied, striding slowly towards her, tilting his head and inspecting her. He came chest-to-chest with her, leaning down to speak into her ear. “ _ I would very much like to eat you out again, Doctor Hooper. _ ” 

“ _ I believe I was invited to fellate you, Detective Holmes. _ ” She replied softly, catching the pleased smirk that pulled the muscle of his jaw taut. 

“ _ Something like that. _ ” He nodded, taking a careful hold of her hips and pulling her to him. “ _ What on earth will we do about this situation? Because I for one, have no intention of waiting my turn _ .”

Molly blinked rapidly.  _ Surely he wasn't suggesting... _

“ _ Oh, but I am. _ ” He interrupted her thoughts, biting onto her earlobe. “ _ What do you say, Doctor? _ ”

Molly took two fistfuls of his arse and pulled him closer. “ _ I think I have no choice but to accept your challenge. _ ”

He mimicked her pose, watching the flicker of pain register on her face, before pulling her up against him and smiling fondly when her legs automatically went to his waist. “ _ It's hardly a challenge if I'm going to win. _ ” He crowed, smashing his mouth into hers and flattening her to the back of the door, positioned _ just so _ that his erection was practically  _ stabbing _ her centre. “ _ Molly _ .” He purred, smiling delightedly when she clenched around him, threading her fingers through his hair. 

“ _ The game is on, Detective _ .” He growled, taking hold of her lips just as her sentence finished. He pulled the two of them away from the door, favouring the couch. Molly croaked when he landed on top of her and without pause went to work, pulling her blouse over her head and reaching for her pelvis, glancing up at her with a secretive smile when she reciprocated the process, steadily unbuttoning button after button.  _ Just what are you planning, Sherlock Holmes? _

He rutted into her hand absently when she made to free him, as he pulled down her pants roughly, making her yelp against the chafe. He leaned closer, speaking clearly and less breathlessly. “I'm curious to know what you look like when I force feed you my cock.” He mused, watching her face undoubtedly inflame. He did seem to have an affinity for doing so. 

“Probably not as great as seeing your head buried between my legs.” She replied coyly, raising an eyebrow. 

Sherlock smiled, his expression one of understanding:  _ she had figured out his game _ . “Very good.” He praised her with a purr, leaning forward and giving her a hard kiss that didn't last nearly long enough. He tasted like candy. That was odd. “ _ But, _ there's a more pressing matter at play here, and you _ haven't even seen it yet. _ ” He was smiling like a madman, it was almost contagious. 

“It's a good thing we have all weekend.” Molly mused, beaming back at him. 

“Indeed,” he turned his head, curly hair falling into his eyes. “It's a little cramped on this couch, isn't it?” He muttered rhetorically, rolling to the floor and dragging Molly with him. The former landed on his back, caressing the latter’s thighs, where she was straddled on his abdomen. “ _ Much _ roomier down here.” He took a deep breath, watching her rise and fall with his lungs. “I feel like I can breathe.” He rose his buttocks off the floor and discarded his trousers, now unabashedly naked and pressed into the white carpet. He reached up, eyes twinkling. “Two more steps. Alright?”

“You're going to bottom?” Molly asked, awed, watching as her bra seemed to come off like magic in his hand. 

He eased her upwards, pulling her panties down awkwardly with much adjustment. “I am.  _ For fuck's... _ ” He began to swear, flinging the offending garment away with a furious scowl, scanning her up and down. After a heartbeat, his expression softened. “One more step.” He smiled, meeting her eyes. He guided her gently to her hands and knees, rotating her slowly until they were face-to-face with the other’s crotch. 

Molly yipped when Sherlock's nose pressed to her pubic bone and he took a huge inhale. She looked down at him, slightly intimidated. She hadn't done...  _ this _ much. His tongue stroked her gently, languid, not looking for entry. Absent. Passing time while she found her senses. Of average... g-girth? Length slightly... ancillary. Uncircumcised, the foreskin pulled back to reveal his glans. Molly _ really _ needed work on her dirty talk.  _ Unfair _ that it came so easily to the currently docile detective. Finding her courage and slightly the will to do so, she took his head in her mouth. Sherlock grunted in surprise, before delving his tongue between her labia as retribution. 

He lapped around, curious, trying to memorize her anatomy. Molly rolled his head around in her mouth, swirling her tongue round him, before going a little deeper, stopping where her hard palate ended and soft palate began. He gave a displeased growl, but started on her as well, finally pressing his silver tongue inside of her. She whimpered, taking him a little deeper. Sherlock redoubled his efforts, one hand going to her arse, holding her stationary _ very _ close to his face, while the other went to her tender breasts, still smarting from their earlier mistreatment. 

Molly, suddenly remembering herself, began bobbing shallowly, holding Sherlock's hips down when he made to thrust down her throat. Sherlock stroked his tongue around her, spearing her g-spot relentlessly. As her head came up to speak, spur him on, a warm hand cradled the back of her skull, his middle and ring fingers on either side of her ponytail. “The memory is a very interesting concept. Wouldn't you agree, Doctor Hooper?” He mused, left hand stroking and squeezing her sore posterior. 

All she could muster was a soft gurgle. “I myself have an eidetic memory. The ability to recall things vividly. Murders. Sensations of gunshot wounds. Conversations.” He pushed her a little further down his shaft, groaning at the sensation. “I never gave you an _ offer _ to fellate me, I think you'll find. I asked you if you'd let me _ fuck your mouth. _ ” Molly croaked. “And do you remember what you said, Molly?”

Her neck flexed, kinking slightly as she tried to nod. He pushed her down ever further, squeezing and caressing viciously, all for his own gain. “ _ Yes, _ ” he hissed through his teeth. “Molly,” he said her name softly. “Move your right hand to the floor.  _ Now _ .” The carpet was plush and cushiony under her palm, and she was struck with the realization,  _ he wasn't bottoming, he just wanted the more comfortable position! _ He chuckled, stroking his thumb over the back of her skull. “I can hear your anger from here. I admit openly and willingly to my duplicity. Now, I want you to make a hand sign. Nothing too complicated. Something you could do in the heat of the moment, cock in the back of your throat,  _ forgetting the need to breathe, choking on my ejaculate, not caring when it spills out of your nose _ .” He nipped her inner thigh, rumbling in a growl. “Sooner, rather than later.”

Her hand shook as she lifted it, feeling the heat of his gaze on her. She brought her pinkie and ring finger to her palm, before snapping her open fingers together, middle, ring, and thumb. “ASL.” He commented. “I'm impressed.” She felt herself blush under his praise. He clearly noticed as well, moving his hand from her arse to her breast, giving it a cautious squeeze. “As a final warning, Molly, remember to  _ breathe _ .” He shoved her all the way down, until her lips were to his pubic hair.  _ He trimmed _ , she acknowledged absently, choking on the most intimate part of Sherlock's anatomy as he groaned into the cool atmosphere of the living room. He was sweating, what was a dewy sheen progressing to profuse. His hand moved back to her buttocks, pressing his nose _ between _ her folds this time, an _ achingly _ pleasant sensation, any sort of pressure in that area a godsend. He didn't withdraw when she began to grind on his face, in fact providing gentle nuzzles. 

Molly's struggle of trying to break free proved unfruitful, his muscle just being so much  _ greater _ than hers, and he was blind in his efforts to reach his peak, simply undulating his hips, his breath stuttering every time her throat flexed around him. Undignified sounds were coming from her, a series of throaty sounds caused by lack of oxygen and abundance of moisture. Tendrils of saliva fell from her mouth, creating a pool of moisture at his base. 

A sharp burn of salt started at the back of her tongue on his withdraw. “Oh,  _ Molly.  _ You haven't the slightest how _ incredible  _ this feels.” Molly whined around her mouthful. “Knowing that when I come, you'll swallow it, and hold it with you for _ so much longer _ than that regular _ dull _ intercourse.” His tongue burrowed into her, stroking her sensitive areas with the flat of his tongue. He gave two rapid thrusts before coming down her throat, sheathing himself entirely, listening to her chokes with a contented sound, arching beneath her. 

When his high wore off, he relinquished his hold on her head and bucked her off of him. “Alright, Molly?” He breathed raggedly, turning his head and giving her a tired blink. 

“Fine.” She rasped, putting her hand on his shoulder. “A little...  _ st-stunned _ .” Sherlock shook under her hand, laughing. 

“You'll need to be craftier, Molly.” He teased affectionately. “And, not that this carpet isn't opulent, but do you think we could move to a... bed, perhaps?” He sat up with a groan, stretching out his muscles. 

“Sure,” as she sat up, she was intercepted by an aggressive kiss, Sherlock's tongue searching her mouth almost obsessively, before he drew back with a content sound. “What was that for?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “I thought physical affection post-coitus was common.” He said, deadly serious, his face going pale. Oh, he thought he did something _ wrong _ . She could see his figure locking up, his pupils shrinking to almost pinpricks. 

“No, no, it is.” She blushed, taking his face between her hands. “I just never thought you would be the cuddling type.”

He smiled bashfully.  _ Sherlock. Bashful.  _ “Bed, Molly. I don't want any more carpet burn.” He changed the subject, getting gracefully to his feet and holding his hand out for her. He tugged her to her feet with little effort, throwing his arm around her shoulders and leading her with him to her bedroom. Sherlock watched her climb under the edge of the covers he lifted up, sliding in behind her and spooning against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder. “What made you think I wasn't the cuddling type?” He asked, hugging her viciously to him. 

“Your demeanor.” She replied, fitting herself to his long body with ease. “You're so stand-offish with everyone you come into contact with. I just assumed.”

He hummed. “Yes. I would be, but you can imagine John doesn't fancy cuddling with me much. We hardly need to give the Yard more to talk about.” Molly laughed quietly. “I'm not desperate enough to ask Lestrade.” 

“Why can you only fathom cuddling with men?” She asked, tearing up with laughter. “Are you _ sure _ you're heterosexual?”

Sherlock snorted. “I want sure I was _ sexual _ until earlier this week. There's a lot of emotions going through me right now.” He informed her blandly. “Not to mention, most women I come into contact with want to chain me to my own bed and whip me.”

Molly rolled over in his hold, looking up at him. “Who's to say I'm not the same?” She asked slyly. 

“Nobody.” He replied sotto voce, giving her a gentle peck on the lips. “But it didn't make me quite this _ excited _ with my _ few _ previous offers.” 

“So you'd let me, then?” She tilted her head. 

“I said nothing of the sort.” He blinked lazily at her. “I said I find the _ prospect _ exciting. Getting me into the chains is a whole other problem.” He plunged his tongue into her mouth, rocking his hips against hers. “I'm sure you'll manage it somehow.” He was hardening again, pulling back with a wet sound, going to her neck and rolling over to straddle her. 

Molly scowled up at him. “I will.” She vowed, fierce. Sherlock growled, bringing her legs over his shoulders and, with a stretch of effort, fumbled with the box of condoms. He ripped open a square of foil, rolling it up his shaft and giving her a predatory grin. 

“I look forward to it.” The detective smirked, guiding himself into her, giving a low moan at the sensation. “ _ Oh... _ ” He purred, thrusting shallowly when he reached his hilt. Fingernails dug into his arse, and he yelped softly. 

“ _ Fuck, _ Sherlock.” She whimpered. He panted down at her, meeting her eyes with his surprisingly sharp pair. “I love you.”

“ _ Molly _ ,” he said quietly, pleading, his expression becoming pained. 

“ _ I love you, Sherlock. _ ” She whispered insistently. “ _ Don't say anything, kiss me. _ ” She told him, closing her eyes. He met her lips with his, breathing heavily through his nose. She tried to shift, squirm against his weight, bearing down on her, stretching her quads. 

“ _ Molly _ .” He murmured again. “ _ I feel the same way. _ ” His voice was soft. 

Molly smiled, her eyes filling with tears, acknowledging but uncaring of the sudden onslaught of terror that plagued the man's expression. “ _ I know you do _ .” She sobbed. “Kiss me again, please.” She said a little louder, digging her heels into his shoulders and squeezing his arse. 

As usual with Sherlock, conversation fell down to nil, his lips sealed to hers impossibly, gasping between kisses, moaning into her mouth. They shared breaths, Molly's thighs began to protest the position they were in, their sweat-slicked bodies chafing annoyingly. He sat up away from her, flipping his hair out of his face with little success. The hold on her shifted; the bend of her knees in the crooks of his elbows, face looking down at her with a stern expression, fully concentrated on her. 

Molly shifted one hand to her breast, while the other went to her clitoris. Sherlock's eyes flashed, watching her squeeze and massage, pulling her tighter against him and thrusting harder, deeper. She was still crying, she realized dimly, though it didn't affect her speech as she moaned the detective's name, watching his muscles clench as he tried to ward off his impending orgasm with limited success. 

He lasted a minute longer before he tossed his head back and screamed, voice a little deeper this time, perhaps consciously, perhaps not. His fingers had a bruising hold on her thighs, holding her close while his cock continued to piston into her without conscious thought. Molly pressed her clit harder, speeding her orgasm which dragged her under without mercy. 

She vaguely felt Sherlock cease moving, too overjoyed in her afterglow to make sense of much. When her eyes opened, he was looking down at her warmly. “Welcome back.” He said softly. 

“Thanks.” Molly snorted, closing her eyes when he withdrew. His weight lifted from the mattress and she turned her head, watching him stroll to the en suite. He returned after a few seconds, slipping back under the covers with her and placing his head on her chest. 

“You're crying again.” He murmured. “You cried the first time as well.” Molly took a handful of his hair. “But this time is like when you cried at John's wedding. Those were _ happy tears _ or something ridiculous like that.” He stroked his hand over her belly. “I could hear you through the front door last time. What were you crying about?”

Molly kept her mouth shut and closed her eyes. Sherlock wasn't good with emotions. He surely wouldn’t,

“ _ Oh. _ ” He mumbled. “I think I understand.” He yawned deep in his chest as he cuddled closer. “Eidetic memory, I think you'll recall.” He added when she went still in his hold. “As for now, Molly, go to sleep. You'll need it.” He purred lewdly, giving her a nip on her breast. 

And it turned out she did. When she woke in the morning, it was to the gentle lullaby of a violin in her living room. She got up and took the comforter with her, covering her body as she slid into the main room. He was wrapped in his dressing gown, sitting in her armchair with a cat in his lap. She leaned against the doorway, watching him quietly. 

He knew she was there. She was sure of it. His eyes were closed, sure, but everything else about him screamed alert. The fixed tensity of his posture, the slight furrow of his brow, the extra tremor in his vibrato on the down pull of his bow. 

Without pause in his music, he announced, “Tea in the kitchen,” and fixed his gaze on her. Molly straightened and made for the kettle, listening to the music gain intensity. He was playing louder, now that she knew he knew she was awake. 

She stirred in the sugar and turned, jumping when he stood right before her, leaning back against her countertop. He raised his eyebrows at her, giving the strings a final stroke of the bow before straightening, placing the instrument on the marble and the bow beside it. “Don't tell me I've deceived you  _ again, _ Doctor Hooper.”

“Oh, bugger off, Sherlock.” She shook her head, sipping her tea beside him, acutely aware of his position when he leaned over her shoulder, giving soft,  _ ever so soft _ kisses to the smooth flesh behind her ear. 

“I don't think I've ever made you come with just my mouth.” He mused, tugging the blanket down her shoulder and giving it a few sharp nips, which progressed to hickies. “I would much like to.”

Molly forced her hand to steady as she brought the teacup to her lips and took a slow pull, closing her eyes. “Did you _ bring _ tea?”

“ _ Mm _ .” He affirmed without withdrawing. 

“I can't tell if you're the _ best _ or _ worst _ houseguest in existence.” She muttered. 

Sherlock smiled. “I will be leaving soon.” He informed her softly. Molly must've deflated, because he began to soothe her hurt. “Only to prepare for when you come for dinner.” He clarified. 

Molly laughed shortly. “Is that a double entendre or do you indeed plan to feed me?”

Sherlock only hummed, palming her arse through the blanket. “So is that a _ no _ for me licking you to orgasm, or are you undecided?” He asked, blowing cool air over the patches of saliva he left behind. 

“If you think you can manage.” He scooped her cup and platter out of her hands, sliding them across the countertop and yanking down her cover and hoisting her to the counter on her belly. Her toes slipped against the lino, just barely not having purchase on the floor. Sherlock crouched behind her, giving the backs of her thighs sharp bites that made her jolt and twitch, one close enough to her centre making her yelp. “Sherlock,” she whimpered, curling her legs round his shoulders and pulling him closer. 

With a vicious snarl, he thrust his face between her thighs, his forehead cushioned on her buttocks. He hooked her ankles over his shoulders, giving himself greater access, tugging her flesh open and digging his tongue in further. He stroked carefully and firmly, moaning into her. Molly rocked back against his face, whining at the deep rumbles he sent into her vulva, which made her nipples ache, hard against the cold marble. 

“Tell me how it feels, Molly.” He growled, giving her labia a gentle pinch between his incisors. “What does my tongue feel like inside you?” She squeezed her legs around him when he pressed back in, humming at the new wave of moisture that spilled out of her. 

“So good,” she breathed, grinding back against him. “It's hot, and wet, and you know just where to _ p-put _ -!” She was cut off when he twisted his tongue upwards and stroked her g-spot. “ _ Put it, _ g’oh  _ fuck _ .”

“Come on, Molly.” He coaxed her gently. “Keep talking. Tell me about the rest of your body.”

“My tit hurts.” She told him. “From where you twisted it day before.” He hummed in acknowledgement. “My nipples are so hard, it  _ aches _ .” He gave her g-spot another lick, holding her cunt open with his thumb. “My ankles... your shoulders are digging into my ankles... and it hurts, but I wouldn't move even if I could.” He swept his thumb upwards to stroke her clitoris. She arched her back, grinding with abandon. 

“ _ Molly _ .” He growled. “ _ Talk to me _ .” 

“My stomach is getting hot, and it's _ c-clenching _ , and I can _ feel _ ...” she shook her head, trying to think. “I can feel my orgasm coming.” His thumb stabbed into her clitoris, pleasure and  _ agony _ making her clench around his tongue, which ran upwards, pressing into her Gräfenberg forcefully. 

She came in his mouth, on his tongue, which began to move around, lapping up her ejaculate like a content cat. He made a thoughtful sound that she might confuse with a moan. “Delicious.” He complimented, giving her another lick before patting her thigh and letting her legs fall. “Well, Molly, I'll see you this evening.” He gave her arse a light slap as he stood, then a swift lick, making her yelp in surprise. “Casual dress will do. I would go with something that covered my shoulders, though.” 

He gently hit his hips against her backside before moving away in a flutter of clothes. Time was relative, after all, and after what felt like a second, the front door opened, the detective called, “Be seeing you, Molly,” and then the door slammed shut resolutely. 

His feet skipped down the stairs of her porch after a while, and she was left in silence, still leaned over the counter. Her back protested her previous when she straightened. Without care, she picked up her blanket and made her way to bed. Sherlock had kept her up a majority of the night with his curious, teasing touches. Even when she had told him to stop, it had continued. Finally, pliant, she would allow him to fuck her, and fuck her he would. Always hard and fast, because God forbid the detective get bored. 

She curled up on the side opposite of the one she usually did, breathing in the scent of sex and Sherlock. It lulled her to sleep quickly, and she slept heavily through the day. 


End file.
